English Songs and Ballads Part 59

The deer across their greensward bound Through shade and sunny gleam, And the swan glides past them with the sound Of some rejoicing stream.

The merry homes of England-- Around their hearths by night, What gladsome looks of household love Meet in the ruddy light!

There woman's voice flows forth in song, Or childhood's tale is told; Or lips move tunefully along Some glorious page of old.

The blessed homes of England, How softly on their bowers, Is laid the holy quietness That breathes from Sabbath hours!

Solemn, yet sweet, the church bells' chime Floats through their woods at morn, All other sounds in that still time Of breeze and leaf are born.

The cottage homes of England By thousands on her plains, They are smiling o'er the silvery brooks, And round the hamlet fanes.

Through glowing orchards forth they peep, Each from its nook of leaves, And fearless there the lowly sleep, As the bird beneath their eaves.

The free fair homes of England, Long, long, in hut and hall, May hearts of native proof be reared To guard each hallowed wall.

And green for ever be the groves, And bright the flowery sod, Where first the child's glad spirit loves Its country and its G.o.d.

THE CHILD'S FIRST GRIEF

'Oh, call my brother back to me!

I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone?

'The b.u.t.terfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight-- Oh, call my brother back!

'The flowers run wild--the flowers we sow'd Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load-- Oh, call him back to me!'

'He could not hear thy voice, fair child, He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou'lt see.

'A rose's brief bright life of joy, Such unto him was given; Go--thou must play alone, my boy!

Thy brother is in heaven!'

'And has he left his birds and flowers, And must I call in vain?

And, through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again?

'And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er?

Oh, while my brother with me play'd, Would I had loved him more!'

THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD

They grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee, Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea.

The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow, She had each folded flower in sight, Where are those dreamers now?

One midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream, is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar's shade.

The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep, He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep.

One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the n.o.ble slain; He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain.

And one, o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band.

And, parted thus, they rest--who played Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee!

They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth, Alas for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh earth!

CASABIANCA

The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead.

Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form.

The flames roll'd on--he would not go, Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard.

He call'd aloud--'Say, father, say If yet my task is done?'

He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son.

'Speak, father!' once again he cried, 'If I may yet be gone!'

--And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.

Upon his brow he felt their breath, And in his waving hair; And look'd from that lone post of death, In still, yet brave despair:

And shouted but once more aloud, 'My father! must I stay?'

While o'er him fast, through sail and shroud The wreathing fires made way.

They wrapt the s.h.i.+p in splendour wild, They caught the flag on high, And stream'd above the gallant child, Like banners in the sky.

There came a burst of thunder sound-- The boy--oh, where was he?

--Ask of the winds that far around With fragments strew'd the sea!

THE DREAM OF EUGENE ARAM

THOMAS HOOD

'Twas in the prime of summer time, An evening calm and cool, And four-and-twenty happy boys Came bounding out of school: There were some that ran, and some that leapt, Like troutlets in a pool.

Away they sped with gamesome minds, And souls untouch'd by sin; To a level mead they came, and there They drave the wickets in; Pleasantly shone the setting sun Over the town of Lynn.

Like sportive deer they coursed about, And shouted as they ran-- Turning to mirth all things of earth, As only boyhood can: But the usher sat remote from all, A melancholy man.

His hat was off, his vest apart, To catch heaven's blessed breeze; For a burning thought was in his brow, And his bosom ill at ease: So he lean'd his head on his hands, and read The book between his knees.